Wednesday, October 21, 2015

Today I finished Patti Smith’s memoir Just Kids* and then casually started tearing up in Chiptole. I’m watering my insufficiently cheesed
burrito bowl and wistfully staring at the cover; it had ended so touchingly and
I was sad to see it go. I’m just glad I wasn’t in public during the Breaking Bad finale. That show is the
goddamn GOAT.

Anyway,
although the book is technically a memoir, it mostly chronicles her
relationship with the most integral man in her life: Robert Mapplethorpe.
Mapplethorpe was an artist known for his controversial sexual photographs and
homoerotic depictions until he passed away from AIDS in 1989. Patti Smith is a
singer-songwriter who pioneered the fusion of poetry and rock n roll
music.Prior to their fame, they were
two young lovers and friends struggling to define their artisanal voice within
New York City.

What I love
about this memoir is that you don’t have to be immersed within the artistic
realm to appreciate it. Patti and Robert’s friendship was so genuine and
empathetic that I wanted to keep reading about their adventures. I find it so
beautiful that that kind of intimacy existed between them; it gives me hope
that despite all the darkness in the world, there are human connections so
intense that they sustain you. Mutual affection and respect guided them—each
one was the other’s muse, providing inspiration, encouragement, and eventually
propelling their respective projects into public recognition. Smith described
her counterpart as “a lover and a friend to create with, side by side. To be
loyal, yet be free” (Smith, 81).

Their
relationship was simple and pure: they lived together, worked together, lay
together…and then sometimes openly had sex with other people. To be honest, the
(few) polygamous people I know exhibit a holier than thou attitude and thereby
tote their polygamy about obnoxiously. They act like society’s monogamous
tendencies are inferior, limited, and wrong. In my opinion, I think it’s a
personal choice based on psychological inclinations. What works for some
doesn’t necessarily work for others. Patti Smith intrigued me because she
embodied a seemingly elevated form of sexuality. She was pretty monogamous
herself, but she was very tolerant and understanding of Robert’s need to
explore his repressed homosexuality. At one point when he was hustling for
money, I had a moment of feminist outrage where I wished Patti would speak up
for herself more and express her valid concerns with his physically dangerous
behavior. Then I realized that the truth of the matter is that she didn’t feel
affronted. She espoused a less rigid understanding of the world and she was
unwaveringly confident in what she meant to Robert. And if that’s enough for
her, then more power to her.

She assumed
the same nonjudgmental *you do you and I’ll do me* attitude when it came to
drugs. As she and Robert moved from place to place in search of an affordable
creative foothold, she was surrounded by substances. Artistry infused her
entire being; it ran through her veins and she did not want something like
heroin to take its place. While many of her friends turned to drugs for
artistic insights, she refused to partake and thus surprised the world she was
enveloped in. Yet, she was unperturbed by her companions’ narcotic-addled
lifestyles. For instance, the first time Robert met her family, he took LSD
right before to stay his nerves (Smith, 52). Sober Smith was largely
open-minded with regards to other people’s choices, lending her an angelic
quality.She was “in full possession of
[herself]”; she knew what she wanted and whom she cared for and everything else
was peripheral. I’m not a huge fan of her music, but I respect her as an
individual because she was so passionate about Robert and her work. Together,
they viewed the world entirely through artistic glasses—through the lens of
limitless potential creation. A trip to the coffee shop wasn’t merely a trek to
caffeine; it was an exploration in resplendent outfits.

Books such
as this are refreshing to the reader because they capture the joy of what it
means to be human: to love another and love what you collectively create. Her
story speaks to your mind and your soul because she is an adept writer as well
as a beautiful storyteller. Reading Just
Kids made me feel light and untethered. Her words were like balloons
daintily guided by static electricity because her existence was that of a woman
floating towards creative energy. Science!

The only
thing that irked me—mostly from a jealous perspective—is that the life she
illustrated (a life as an artist alongside Mapplethorpe in the 60’s and 70’s)
is much less attainable now. When they had no money, they traded their
portfolios for room and board at the historic Chelsea hotel, a hub for
renaissance. The idea of celebrity was more fluid; famous artists were
accessible and you could walk amongst them, be their friends, and thereby
garner inspiration. She sat at the same tables as Andy Warhol, Allen Ginseberg,
William Burroughs, etc. Nowadays, I can’t just waltz into a bar and plop myself
next to Tarantino. Furthermore—and I’m not saying this undermines her talent—but she did have tremendous amounts of
support financially from the men in her life. I can imagine that we’d all be a
little more brilliant if someone paid our rent and we didn’t have to worry about
meals or student loans. Nevertheless, I’m just bitching on the side because I
want the freedom to be fabulous. I also want a friend named Tinkerbell, like
she had.

Overall,
Smith effectively memorialized the man that was her rock and her salvation. It’s
not a complex read—just a moving one—and if you want to feel the vibrancy of
their relationship, I recommend it. I promise I’m not the only one that can
vouch for her poignancy. The memoir won the 2010 National Book Award for
Nonfiction and became a New York Times bestseller. If that doesn’t convince
you, Johnny Depp attested, “Patti Smith has graced us with a poetic
masterpiece, a rare and privileged invitation to unlatch a treasure chest never
before breached” (Smith, back cover). I give it 4 out of 5 camel humps
and I hope that I stumble across you readers weeping in chain restaurants once
you are done with it.

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Poll a
group of reasonably well-read adults what their favorite book is, and you’ll
likely hear several enthusiastic The
Catcher in the Rye* responses. I originally read this infamous novel three
years ago and emerged disappointed. It receives so much hype that I expected
some staggeringly brilliant work that would forever change my life. Instead, I
came out the other side appreciating cultural Holden Caulfield references, but
not much more. Now that I’m revisiting the book, I feel quite differently about
it all. Let me clarify my newfound interest in Caulfield terms;
here’s a run-down of my re-read in Salinger-speak:

The book is
very entertaining, if you want to know the truth. It’s sort of simple; it reads
just like a conversation. No kidding. Caulfield sort of tells you about a
couple of days in his life, occasionally looking to the past to elaborate on
some of his references. It’s accessible enough to finish in one sitting, I just
wasn’t in the mood at the time. I started it on the train one morning when I
was feeling really lousy. I had just come back from D.C. Very big deal. Instead
of swallowing it whole, I read a few pages and then started to chew the fat
with a girl next to me who said her name was Jenna. I felt a little sorry for
her because she had these big bug eyes that kept distracting me when she would
speak. Anybody would have a tough time listening to old Jenna because of her
goddamn big bug eyes. I started thinking about how many important things she’s
probably said in her life that nobody ever heard because they couldn’t fully
pay attention. It made me depressed as hell, if you really want to know. Then,
she began telling me about a movie she had seen earlier that day. She kept
saying how marvelous the movie had
been. I don’t know why she had to ruin a perfectly good conversation with
something as phony as that. I mean for Chrissake, can you imagine your whole
day revolving around a goddamn marvelous
movie you saw that afternoon? It probably had an actor with a great big smile
who probably goes home and beats his kids when he’s done filming. I couldn’t
shoot the bull with her anymore after that. I got out at the very next stop
even though it wasn’t where I’d planned. I just had to get out of there, I was
depressed as hell all of a sudden. I thought to cheer myself up I might give my
niece a buzz. Whenever I ask about her day at school, she sort of gives me this
smirk like she thought I’d never ask, and then she tells me all about everything
that happened, in great detail. It kills me.

There ya
have it. Back to Lyndsay speak. The whole book is filled with quintessential
Caulfield phrases like “chew the fat”, “if you really want to know”, “it killed
me”, etc. I totally get why readers find him unbearably annoying—I thought the same
thing my first go-around. The second time though, I ran with it. I embraced the
angst. And once you get past how he’s
saying it (if that even annoys you in the first place), you can really resonate
with what he’s saying. I was
initially distracted by the medium of Salinger’s message, but now I can
identify with Caulfield’s exasperation. Sure, he extrapolates negativity and
takes his complaints as far as they can possibly go, but the book is so beautifully human. Sometimes he feels
things and he’s not sure why. Sometimes he hates something with a passion but
also backs up his hatred with meticulously formed reasons. Caulfield is an
incredibly perceptive teen that picks up on people’s peeve-inducing habits and
notices an alarming trend in society as a result. Everything is going to shit!

The novel
centers on an identity crisis within the young man. There’s something childlike
in his disdain of virtually everything and everyone in his life. He reacts to
his surroundings as though nothing could placate him and oftentimes he exhibits
hypocrisy, as when he calls out phonies but brags that he’s a terrific liar. On
the other hand, there’s also something mature in his assessments. His keen
awareness of people’s true motives and his careful articulation of what bothers
him reveal a layer of wisdom that sets him apart from the ordinary troubled
teen. He’s stuck in the in-between of life phases and he hasn’t mastered how to
cope. Just because he’s confused doesn’t mean he’s a bad guy. After all, he
wants to be the catcher in the rye, standing firm in the rye field and catching
kids if they start to fall off of the cliff, presumably into the perils of
adulthood (Salinger, 173). *Still waiting to be caught, Holden*

When it’s
all said and done, he’s not the only confused one. Admittedly, the novel is
associated with several well-known shootings. Most notably, John Lennon’s
killer, Mark David Chapman, possessed a copy of the book at the time of his
arrest with the inscription "To Holden Caulfield, From Holden Caulfield, This
is my statement.” Obviously, I do not think that my interpretation of the book
is the only plausible one. Still, in my opinion, the novel ends on a rather
positive note, all things considered.For the very first time,
Holden claims that he “felt so damn happy” (Salinger, 213). Shortly thereafter,
he says that even though he has badmouthed pretty much everyone he knows, he
still misses them (Salinger, 214). There’s room for hope here, and in
spite of all the pessimism, Holden presses on. I think it misses the mark to conclude
that the book is merely a recipe for violence that equips angry men and women with
justification for murder.

Which
brings me to my next point. Banning books. Sigh *rolls eyes*. Even in the 21st
century, Salinger’s work receives an onslaught of censorship challenges. I will
never understand an argument that fights against education and exposure in
favor of policing so-called morality. I don’t think it’s an overly liberal
viewpoint to assert that interaction with beliefs that are not your own serves
to effectively refine and enhance those beliefs. Let’s take advantage of the fact that we
live in America, and relish in our ability to have these discussions out
in the open. This isn’t Reading Lolita in
Tehran. Certainly, The Catcher in the
Rye might make you uncomfortable, but that doesn’t mean it’s inherently bad
and it definitely doesn’t mean you shouldn’t read it. In fact, that’s even more
of a reason to indulge—you can discover why
it makes you uncomfortable and learn something about yourself! The horror!

I digress.
Anyway, I chose to review this novel in honor of Banned Books week, a
knowledge-friendly time of year that celebrates the freedom to read from
September 27th-Oct 3rd. Shame on all of you schools who
stripped students of the opportunity to feel less alone in the world because
they had Holden Caulfield by their side. I’m a born-again Salinger-appreciator
and I encourage you to either crack this open for the first time or revisit his
work and give it a second chance. At most, it will make you feel something. At least, you get some
amusing takeaways. For instance, now if I don’t enjoy a film, I can advise,
“Don’t see it if you don’t want to puke all over yourself” (Salinger, 139).
Overall, I give The Catcher in the Rye 5
out of 5 goddamn camel humps. Read it and weep about the world (but then
also consider that maybe it’s tolerable).

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Lyndsay West

About Me

I’m a 25 year old lover of reading and writing. I was born and raised in Dallas, Texas, and I graduated from the University of Virginia in 2013. Currently, I live in New York City making my writing mark on the world via freelance work. Other interests include religious studies, philosophy, psychology, dancing, and live music.

Follow my twitter: @humpdayhardback

*Words underlined/highlighted in red are links to websites with more info on the topic.